Bad Memories
by Nikkel
Summary: It wasn't the storm that kept her awake, but the bad memories in her head, cold and chilling like ghosts of evils passed. . . Oneshot. Rated for certain themes.


**Bad Memories  
**_By Nikkel  
_(c) to Glen Muramaki, David Slack, and Warner Bros. Animation

* * *

She felt the storm rumble beneath the cold, placid tile of the bathroom floor. Her space was small and confined, four white walls and fluorescent lights keeping the darkness beyond the door. It was probably the worst storm by far, and here she was, standing naked in front of the mirror at two AM.

Sleep had been difficult, but not because of the thunder. Her pale fingers brushed over the faint, pink-red scars along her arms, her ribs, her stomach; they burned at her own touch. Her skin was fierce and scorching, a cold sweat trickling from her brow. Her knees were slightly concave, as if trying to hide the cryptic red patterns into more private areas, exposed and disturbing.

A sickness rose in her stomach and she bit her lip to fight it, but she ended up diving for the toilet boil, vomiting. It wasn't merely the scars that had brought up such vivid, grotesque memories of haunting concrete skeletons, rippling lakes of blood, menacing black crows, and a sky as blazing as the deepest inferno; such things she kept to the back of her mind, and it was only on sleepless nights such as these did they arise and plague her conscious and subconscious mind.

Bad memories like these did not come to her so often. She constantly repressed them, afraid to relive them, in fear that it would cause some kind of repercussion to the way her life was now. Her life now was peaceful. Healthy. Welcoming. If she started remembering nightmares like those. . .

"_The gem was born of evil's fire. . . The gem shall be his portal. . ._"

Such ancient words from grave voices echoed in her head. Her nails clenched the edges of the toilet bowl, heaving. She pulled herself away and wiped her lips with a towel.

"There is no prophecy," she said to herself, hoarse and stern. "There is no prophecy. . ."

But still, the voices of long ago drifted through her mind. "_He comes to claim. . . He comes to sire. . . The end of all things mortal_."

"There is no prophecy. . . There is no prophecy. . ."

But the images in her mind's eye blurred and swirled, a dark figure with antlers and goat hooves rising from the burning buildings of the apocalyptic horizon. A thundering roar burst from his muscular throat, shaking the very earth, and she clapped her hands over her ears to make it stop, make it stop. It was like she couldn't even shut her eyes to his crimson scales and fur, matching so perfectly the shade of red of the scars all over her body. Any moment, they would begin to glow, and the end of the world would come. . .

But the world did not end, and she was lying on the bathroom floor, naked and shivering. She reached up to the sink to pull herself to her feet, feeling like she was going to collapse. She blasted the water on cold, washed her face, and exhaled.

"There is no prophecy," she repeated.

Hazy, amethyst eyes in the mirror told her a different story. They always did. They were eyes of sad, lost hope.

"Raven?"

She jumped and nearly fell at the sight of her husband opening the door. He darted out and caught her by the wrist, catching her fall. Before she could say anything, he looked her over, gently pulling her toward him. He lay a delicate hand on her shoulder, careful of where he was to place his fingers. He did not want to touch the scars.

"Can't sleep?" he mused, a faint smile to his lips. The simple notion – the simple, pure, _human _notion of a smile – brought tears to her eyes. He wrapped his arms around her and whispered, "Come on. Let's go to bed. You need sleep."

And relinquishing all thoughts that were hellfire and brimstone, she pressed her cheek into his chest, closing her eyes to rest. He was her reminder that everything was in the past, that it was the present she was living, and that the future was hers to control. Destiny would have no reign over her. Cradling her gently, her husband lifted her and took her back to the velvet bed, where nothing but soft, angel teardrops rained on the windows.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Since I made my new profile, I've been feeling guilty about not having written a TT fic. I used to write them all the time, but now all I serve is Avatar. So, to make it up, I wrote this that has been floating in my head for a while. I decided to leave the husband ambiguous (though I have to say I am a firm BBRae shipper), because it wouldn't be too hard to imagine it as Robin, either. I mean, he _was _the one that was with her throughout the whole "End of the World" thing, and it satisfies those shippers. I should get back to writing TT fanfiction again, though - it was my first obsession.


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